


What Wild Geese Know

by Rabid1st



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabid1st/pseuds/Rabid1st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story written in 2008, just after Last of the Timelords in S3, features a Rose/Doctor reunion. It explores alien sexuality in a frank, but hopefully sensitive, way. Some readers found this take on Gallifreyan gender roles alarming. Rose does as well. But I wanted to clearly show that this is a union between two different species. The Doctor isn't human here.</p><p>As it was written long before there was a Ten 2 or other options, you must set aside what you know. I merely tackle what RTD failed to address. I felt that the Doctor having experienced old age at the hands of the Master might find he had less to fear. And, also, I felt he would want to experience the fullness of a life with Rose. So, this is the Doctor and Rose starting their life together. Many have since imagined this life for the Duplicate Ten and Rose, but here, of course, the details will be different. It is the original Doctor and so...some things are quite alien. There are gender issues at play and some assertive sexual interaction, but everything happens in a loving fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

What Wild Geese Know  
by Rabid1st  
Doctor Who AU  
Doctor/Rose  
Spoilers: A bit of S3, Last of the Time Lords  
Betas: Measi and Keswindhover  
Challenge: This is another answer to the challenge of first time sex where the Doctor isn't a sex god.

Summary: A post reunion story...taking off from the canon premise that the Doctor and Rose never had sex during their travels. All events through Last of the Time Lords apply.

Disclaimer: I do not own nor have any right to use these characters. I wrote this for my own amusement and the amusement of my friends and expect no compensation of any kind.

 

 **Wild Geese** __  
You do not have to be good.  
You do not have to walk on your knees  
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.  
You only have to let the soft animal of your body  
love what it loves.  
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.  
Meanwhile the world goes on.  
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain  
are moving across the landscapes,  
over the prairies and the deep trees,  
the mountains and the rivers.  
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,  
are heading home again.  
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,  
the world offers itself to your imagination,  
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -  
over and over announcing your place  
in the family of things.  
-by Mary Oliver

Part One

It took the Doctor over nine hundred years to learn what the wild geese knew instinctively--how to find his way home.

Twelve seconds into the life he thought he could never have he told Rose Tyler he loved her.

A minute and a half later they had shared their first kiss and she had, once again, promised him forever.

Now, bag over his shoulder, coat-tails flaring behind him, he hurried along toward his place in the family of things.

When Rose took his hand into the cradle of hers, the soft animal of his body spoke. It asked for comfort and release. He intended to give in to those pleas, to give his body what it had been craving since it came into being. It felt strange to him, responding to those muted internal cries. He was used to denying their existence. As a Time Lord, he'd been trained to ignore his physical needs. Time Lords lived in their heads. When a body mewed or winced they cast it aside without regret, like an old shoe worn past mending. Time Lords did not ache. They suffered no wasting indignities, harbored no regrets. They regenerated. They moved on. The price they paid for never dying was never truly living, never knowing love or comfort. The Doctor had shrugged away nine bodies in distress, but not this one.

Through this body he'd become intimate with longing and infirmity. This body had lived with wasting illness. It had known hunger and grief. It had wept and shivered and crawled. This body had endured the Master's trials. A Time Lord to the core, the Master had seriously underestimated this body's tenacity. He had expected to win when he'd played his trump card of old age. He had expected regeneration and capitulation. But the Doctor had gone on fighting.

Crippled and caged, withered into helplessness, he'd focused on Rose, drawing on her strength when his own failed. He had imagined her facing an illness with her general bravado. He had imagined her wasting away, wilting, crumbling into a handful of dust. Rose's eventual death became a reality for him, something he could accept. Weary and worn, he had turned to her people on the Earth below and asked for their help. Any one of them was braver than any of his kind. Humans were willing to chance, willing to feel, able to comfort one another despite their fragile, all too short, lives. Until that year in captivity, he hadn't truly appreciated their spirit, their capacity for love.

Now he did. More than that, he knew he could cope with losing Rose one day, but only if he had something tangible to cling to when she was gone. They didn't have forever. They had her lifetime. He needed to act on his desires, brave his fears and give his body what it loved while there was still time.

“It's just there,” Rose said, pointing across the street at a high-rise building. “Number 21, on the sixteenth floor.”

Scarcely glancing up, he angled his body into hers. Head tilted down, he beamed at her. “Torchwood pays well.”

She squeezed his hand. “Not that well,” she said, with a grin of her own and a bounce into his shoulder. “It belongs to Tyler International. It's the company flat, but Dad lets me stay here when I'm in London.”

Her father - excellent place to start rebuilding their rapport. “How is old Pete Tyler these days?”

“Fine. Wonderful. And Mum. She's going to be so happy to see you.”

“That'll be a change.”

“No, it won't,” she countered, nudging him with an elbow as they navigated though double doors into a very swanky lobby. Ignored by the reception desk and security guard, Rose towed him toward a bank of lifts. “She misses you terribly. Remember how she used to kiss you silly whenever we came home? You know she loves you.” There was a slight catch in her voice as she lifted her chin. He found himself suddenly breathless, sinking into those starry eyes. “I lo...,” she began, but he silenced her with a finger to the lips. They were soft lips, parting slightly to his gentle pressure.

“Quite right,” he whispered. He held her gaze, all the way in, as he leaned close to brush her cheek with his, adding, “I know and you know.”

Touching her made his blood sing. This, his body said, this is what I need. Say it. Tell her. Take charge. He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. The tips of his fingers drifted, along the bow of her lips, across her cheek and down the curve of her throat. Her lashes fluttered closed, veiling her eyes as he drew back. She wanted a kiss. Some signals were easy to read. Her lips were moist, pink and slightly puckered. He'd kissed humans before. He could do this.

Skimming his fingers to the nape of her neck, he settled his other hand near her mid-back. Through her sweater and shirt, he could feel the play of her muscles under his palm. He told himself to kiss her, kiss her repeatedly. He longed to take her against the wall. He wanted to feel her squirming under him, but her sexual signals left him floundering. If only they were on Gallifrey, if only it were mating season. He drew in a tremulous breath. They were so close now, so close to getting it right. Rose opened her eyes when the lift dinged and they both grew self-conscious. Separating slightly, they stepped into the small, dimly lit cabin. He tried to relax as Rose pushed the button for her floor. Relaxation was key.

She whirled to seize him and he sighed in relief, burying his face in the curve of her neck. They held on to one another on the ride up, letting go only when they disembarked. Feeling bereft without her arms around him, the Doctor tried and failed to rein in his nervous energy as he waited for Rose to unlock the apartment door. He shifted his bag from shoulder to shoulder to floor. His hands told him they were lonely. Jamming them into his trouser pockets, he rocked back and forth, heel to toe, toe to heel, studying the pristinely elegant hallway while Rose fumbled with her keys. He didn't want to rush her, didn't want to seem too eager. Though he was eager, trembling in anticipation of the night to come. Rose trembled, too. He noticed her fingers shaking as she shuffled through the many choices on the keyring.

He found her fidgets charming. Of course, he found everything about her charming. The cut of her trousers. The tilt of her head. The pink tip of her tongue at the corner of the smile she favored him with as she darted a nervous glance his way. He wanted to soothe her, to tell her it would all be okay, but he wasn't sure it would. He'd never done anything like this before. Oh, he'd danced. He'd followed a human to a room and on, through a door. He'd laid down beside one of Rose's kind, given pleasure and been pleasured in return. He'd fathered children on the Rani and on two other wives. But he'd never made love to anyone. Not once in nine hundred years.

Long before the Time War, his people had given up lovemaking. Intimacy of any kind required certain conditions. And he wasn't precisely sure how to go about replicating those conditions with Rose. How could he begin to express everything he felt for her without the assistance of pheromones or telepathy? Could he make love to her using only his body? The magnitude of the task threatened to overwhelm his nerves again.

Recalling Earth's romantic books and films to mind gave him no solace. Courtship rituals had gone the way of the horse and carriage by Rose's time. He knew her contemporaries surrendered to their sexual urges without much preamble, but even if he had the capacity, it would never do to leap on his beloved Rose like some randy sailor making port after a long voyage. She might want him to, of course. Might expect it even. That was a disheartening thought. What if they simply couldn't connect in a way that would satisfy them both? What if she wanted something more, different, less...alien? He would accommodate her, he supposed, go through the motions as he'd done with other human lovers. Anything to be with her, stay together for the rest of her life.

“At last,” Rose declared. The lock turned and the door swung smoothly inward.

A puff of distinctly Rose-scented air enveloped him, wiping every worry from his mind. The signature aroma lifted the hairs on his forearms. He shivered like some wild animal scenting a mate. Perfumed cosmetics layered sweetness above the pungent undertone of peroxide and her unique musk. His knees buckled as the mix of scents wafted by his nose. For one dizzy moment, he thought he might faint from a giddy head-rush of happiness. He leaned his shoulder into the door frame for stability and inhaled deep. This was what home smelled like. It smelled like Rose.

He hadn't realized how faint her trace had become over time, how it had faded from her clothing and her room in the TARDIS. Scenting it fresh brought a flood of sweet memories to mind. He lost himself in sensual pleasure for a moment, drinking in the aroma. Rose, he knew, wouldn't thank him for mentioning her body odor. Humans were funny about perspiration and pheromones. But some of the dearest moments in his long life were redolent with this scent. If he could have synthesized Eau de Rose Tyler during her time away, he would have bathed in it every night.

Rose had stepped over the threshold to turn on a light. His hesitation caused her to look back at him. “Are you coming in?”

“Oh, yes,” he breathed.

Shaking off the dizzying effects of her heady perfume, he flowed around the door frame, slinking ferret-like into the foyer. He felt safer close to the wall, less exposed. Rose gently shut and latched the door behind him. Our door, he thought, reaching backward to touch his fingertips to the varnished white surface. Feeling suddenly trapped, he whirled about to look out the peep hole, marveling at the fish-eye view. Smaller on the inside. Rose tossed her keys at a ceramic bowl on the entryway table. The clatter brought his head around. The keys had landed on top of a few letters, some pens and a corkscrew. She had a place for keys. He settled his shoulder bag to the floor, reached into an inner pocket and produced his TARDIS key. Peering into the bowl, he carefully positioned his key across Rose's, before swirling the chain down in a spiral on top.

“Settling in?” Rose asked, beaming at him.

He returned her grin, and then let his gaze sweep the foyer. At the far end of it a mirror reflected their images, creating an illusion of greater space. Momentarily preoccupied by his reflection, he combed his fingers though his hair, trying to tame it. It only grew more tousled. Giving up, he turned his attention to studying a geometric painting of a tea service which hung above the bowl with their keys. A framed photo of the Tyler family and single glove also graced the gate-legged table. He checked in the table's lone drawer for the other glove, before filing the mystery away for later.

A pair of Wellingtons leaned against an umbrella stand just off the welcome mat. The boots reminded him of the wet sand on his shoes. Sand from another universe, he thought, as he stepped back onto the mat to wipe his feet. Shoes tidied he followed Rose onto the maple-stained hardwood floor. She stood facing the wall opposite the small table, where three brass coat hooks formed a regimented line at eye-level. A yellow slicker occupied one hook. Rose added her purse to another, leaving one hook unclaimed.

Standing at her shoulder, he softly murmured, “A place for my coat. My coat has a place.”

“If you like,” Rose said, without any fuss or emphasis.

“Could I leave it lying about?” he asked, cocking a challenging brow at her. “Toss it down somewhere?”

A twinkle of delight danced in her eyes, but she matched his serious tone. “I don't see why not.”

He sniffed, holding her gaze for a moment before shifting to consider the hook anew. Arms crossed, he lifted his chin to stare down his nose. “I used to have a hat rack with hooks,” he remarked. “Two of them. Hat racks not hooks. I used to wear hats.”

When Rose rolled her eyes, he decided to give up on explaining. He shrugged free of his coat and carefully settled it on the hook. It looked very comfortable hanging there.

“Coat on hook. Keys in bowl. Feet wiped clean.” He beamed at Rose. “What's next?”

She shook her head, but grinned as she made for the first door on their right. He held back, looking along the divergent hall toward two other doorways. A loo and a bedroom, he thought.

“Would you like a coffee?” Rose asked. “Or some tea?”

“Nothing, thanks.” He touched a hand to his stomach, just above the one jacket button still fastened. “Alternative dimension hopping always leaves me a bit queasy.”

That far doorway called to him. He had to know if he'd guessed correctly. Darting along the passage to peek, he discovered the bedroom he'd expected and a master bath. The neatly made bed was low and wide and wore lovely white linens. Someone, not Rose he felt sure, had folded a blue comforter in a triangle across the foot of the bed and there were sprigs of lavender on the pillows. This was the place, tonight was the night. No human DNA to assist him. No amnesia. No post-regenerative zeal. His pulse skipped dramatically. He had no idea if he could carry through on his implied promises to Rose. But sooner or later, he'd be put to the test in this room.

Lips pursed in thought, he contemplated the headboard and bedside tables, all stained a light butterscotch color to match the dresser and wardrobe. Despite the neatly made bed, the room had a lived-in feel about it. Perfume lingered in the air. Bottles and jars vied for room on the dresser top. The wardrobe doors, standing slightly ajar, afforded him a glimpse of Rose's disarrayed clothing. Stockings dangled out of drawers. She'd scattered her shoes about, several meters separating one matched pair. He remembered this chaos well. Rose had a fine disregard for her belongings. He was very much the same. They suited one another.

“Do you have wine?” he yelled over his shoulder.

“I might. Red?” When he failed to answer, she came to the hall to prompt him. “Doctor?”

“Anything,” he said quietly, sauntering out of the bedroom. He edged past her to retrieve his bag.

“What were you doing?”

“Exploring,” he said. Jutting his chin to indicate the bedroom, he asked, “Do you mind if I unpack? Toothbrush? Jimjams and so on?”

Rose looked as if she'd never even considered he might stay the night. Her eyes widened and her lips parted but no sound came out. Finally, something he could reasonably take for assent squeaked past her vocal cords. He waited for no further encouragement.

“Back in a jiffy,” he told her and dashed away.

Rose barely hesitated before following him. Her footfalls sounded tentative, as if she were sneaking up behind him. Stealth sent the wrong signals to his brain, raising his hackles, tightening his muscles. He didn't need to be any more on edge than he already was. If he got any tenser they'd never get to the sex.

He had hoped Rose would be so happy to see him that her customary boldness would carry them through any timidness on his part. She'd seemed to be following this script in the lift. But something had turned her up shy. He needed her to continue being forward now that they were alone. Females were the aggressors on Gallifrey. Males needed to feel safe and protected before they could even think of mating. But, of course, Rose had no way of knowing that. He'd have to be clearer about it.

Trying to ignore the screaming jitters building under his skin, he unzipped his travel bag, opening it on the bed. How did humans do this? Settle? Nest? They never felt safe. They compensated, he supposed, played elaborate courtship games. Rose had always been above that sort of thing. But that didn't make her privy to his alien urges. He wanted to mate with her. Wanted it with every cell of his uncooperative body. If only she would say something, do something he could interpret as a breeding signal. She couldn't give off the correct pheromones, but other females of her species had no trouble communicating their desires. He'd been set upon and kissed more times than he cared to recall.

But now she had him to herself, Rose showed no trace of what he'd always assumed was a natural human appetite. She stood in the doorway, silently watching as he transferred six suits from his bag to the wardrobe.

He glanced at the bedside tables. One of them held a trashy novel, a few files and a half-full tumbler of water.

“You're still to the right?” he inferred, not really pausing for an answer before adding a stack of books, his journal and his spectacles to the left hand table. They'd shared a bed often enough for him to be comfortable with the arrangement. She would sleep. He would listen to her dreams.

Rose gulped audibly when his hand dropped to the lone button restraining his suit jacket. His gaze darted to meet hers, locking on as he popped the button through its hole. He slipped free of the jacket, casually draping it across his pillows. There was no need to loosen the slipshod knot of his tie, but he rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing the sinewy rawness of his forearms. Rose made another involuntary noise, this one more of a whimper than a sigh.

She devoured him with her eyes. He could feel the heat of her gaze as she mentally undressed and caressed him. The static-filled background hum of her thoughts enchanted him. He wanted to reach out with his mind and pull her in, but he didn't dare. She had her thumb in her mouth, teeth worrying at the nail. Probably this meant something, he thought, probably she was expecting some opening from him.

“Would you like to change?” he asked, when the silence threatened to fray his nerves. “Or we could...” he gestured at the bed.

She spoke around her thumb. “I...don't think...I...uh...”

“I could leave you alone for a bit,” he offered. “If you're feeling shy.”

She dropped her hands to her sides and huffed at him. “I'm not shy. I just wasn't expecting you to...you never really wanted to...before, and... I need wine,” she said and darted off down the hall.

He blew out a pent breath. This wasn't going well. It didn't take a genius of his caliber to figure that out. What had he done wrong? He'd mentally rehearsed this scenario a thousand times. In his fantasies, Rose always helped him along, helped him relax. He'd never envisioned her running away from him. Was it possible she didn't want to consummate their long standing attachment? People generally wanted to get closer to him, touch him. Rose had always enjoyed touching him, he was sure of it. Maybe he was sending the wrong signals her way. Maybe he should just ask her what she wanted him to do. He trailed after her to the living room.

It wasn't a room that said Rose to him. It offered no comfort. A few potted plants cheered the otherwise generically appointed space. Steel and glass furniture dominated, giving the room a clinical sterility. All of the surfaces were polished to slick perfection. Rose wouldn't care about shiny things. Bright red and gold accent pillows warmed an otherwise cool white leather sofa. A wool throw and a messy pile of papers were the only signs she'd settled here. There were dishes on the dining table, a cereal bowl and coffee cup obviously left over from breakfast. Rose, he remembered, tended to drag around in the morning and then dash out leaving things half done. He smiled as she bustled the bowl and cup off to the kitchen.

“No need to fuss,” he said, cheerfully. “I'm used to living with you.”

He wandered over to the wall opposite the entry. It was nothing but windows, looking out over the Thames to the London Eye. Gazing down on the city, he said, “Very nice view.”

Rose returned clutching wine glasses. Her impassive gaze swept the panorama of central London visible through the windows. “It is,” she said, handing him his drink.

He cupped his fingers around hers as he took his glass. “Reminds me of the day we met.”

“You do see it, then, this time?”

“What?” he said, affecting a Northern accent and an approximation of his former clueless stare.

She laughed, lifting her chin to indicate the great lighted wheel to their left. “I thought of you when I first saw it. Maybe that's why I stay here. I keep meaning to find a place of my own, but... “ Moving away from him, she let her sentence trail off. She sat her wine down on the coffee table. “I don't spend much time in London. This place is convenient, though. Close to the tubes. There's full maid service three days a week. Laundry pick up on weekends. If you want to stay...”

“Do you want me to?” he asked on a rushed breath.

She didn't seem to be listening. “Work keeps me busy. It takes me all over.”

The darkness outside turned the windows reflective. Watching her covertly in the glass, he saw the haunted glance she shot him when she mentioned her job. Did she think he meant to interfere with her life? Nothing could be further from his mind. He had hoped to add to her happiness. Perhaps, like him, she didn't know what he wanted from her now. They were moving into uncharted territory, testing the waters as they went. Small wonder they were both so tense. Noticing his hunched shoulders in the dark glass, he made a conscious effort to relax, standing up straighter. He took a deep swallow of wine.

“Shall we buy a house?” he asked, trying to keep his suggestion lighthearted.

“I guess...if you don't like it here.”

“I think it's grand,” he said, still staring out the window. “Fully serviced, lovely view. But it not very cozy. And I wonder, will they let us have a dog? I thought I might like to have a dog. A spaniel, maybe. Or the other one. What's it called? A retriever. K-9 only not as prone to rust in bad weather or bog down in swampland or work out quadratic equations before I do.”

“We can have a dog,” Rose said silkily.

That was the tone he'd been waiting for, that seductively honeyed inflection. It meant she was pleased with him and his babbling. It put him instantly at ease. Now, if only she would jump on him and be done with it. He wanted her so badly his teeth ached.

She'd turned her shoulder to the mirror of the windows, hiding from him as she stripped off her sweater. Static cling drew her blouse up too, exposing her midsection and a flash of lacy blue bra. He sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward when her reflection made a few hasty adjustments, covering up again. Not promising, that shyness. She tossed the sweater over the arm of the sofa, but immediately gathered it up again, glancing his way.

“I'm not really attached to this place. It's just where I stay in the city.”

He sat his wine glass down and turned to look at her. “What would make it home?”

Clutching the sweater to her breast, she shrugged. “Oh, I don't know...if it traveled through time and space?” She grinned and threw her sweater at him. He caught it from the air.

The playful gesture evaporated the last vestiges of tension between them. “Isn't this strange?” he asked, bouncing over to her with boyish zeal. “You and me. In a house. Well, a flat, fully-serviced. I can't think why I'm so nervous.”

“Are you?” she asked, sidling closer.

“Oh, yes,” he admitted. He edged into her warm circle of body heat until they bumped shoulders. “Quaking like a school girl at her first formal dance. I feel quite light-headed. And my palms have gone all clammy.” He displayed one hand for her. “Is this sort of thing generally this difficult? Films always make it look easy. I mean...yes, of course there's the awkwardness that comes up naturally when the astrophysicist and the scullery maid try to blend their two worlds...comic hijinks ensue, but...”

“Who's the scullery maid?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Oh, I'm definitely the astrophysicist. I've got the brainy specs to prove it.”

“I dated a physicist a few months back.”

“Did you?” He tried to look interested. “He was here? This...physicist?”

“Yeah...no...not so much,” she stammered. “It didn't get that far. I just tried to date. Once or twice. But it never really worked out. Different worlds.” He tilted his head in inquiry and she clarified. “Me and the physicist. He didn't believe in aliens. Insisted they could never visit the Earth. Interplanetary distances too vast to overcome. Can't travel faster than light. No possibility of ever traveling through time.”

“Oh, one of those.”

“There's only so much smiling and nodding I can do before losing my mind.”

“This isn't helping my nerves,” he said with a slight pout, “all this talk of physicists. I'll be the scullery maid.”

Rose patted him sympathetically. “It's a better life," she assured him. "So? What would help our nerves? We could pretend we're just visiting, yeah? We've parked the TARDIS somewhere and...”

“No,” he said, brandishing a finger. The tip of it brushed the tip of her nose. Her eyes crossed a little as he went on, “No, no, no, no...no.” He took a deep breath and released it. The exhale stirred a few strands of her hair. “We have to face this, head on, I think. No shirking.”

Biting her lower lip, she smiled coquettishly up at him. “Like a trip to the dentist?”

“Quite right,” he said. He glanced around, appraisingly. “I want to stay here. Live here with you. Share the mortgage. Is that all right?”

“Are you sure about the mortgage?” she breathed, toying with his tie, “housing prices are astronomical just now.”

“I can always make money,” he said. His manner was so matter-of-fact she shrugged, accepting his claim without question. “And the bed?” Seeing her clear gaze cloud over in confusion, he quickly added, “Share it, I mean. We're engaged, yes? Promised? Affianced? Oh, I like that—affianced! What I mean is...we have an understanding?”

“Yes.”

She'd quickened his pulse with one syllable. “Fantastic.” He inhaled deliberately, forcing himself to shift his attention away from her upturned face. “So...this is our flat?”

“For the moment. Yes.”

“Our sofa and chairs and small dining table,” he said letting his gaze travel across each piece of furniture. Looking toward the kitchen, he added, “Our microwave oven, cold cereal and nearly empty bag of crisps.”

“Our very lovely view of the Thames,” Rose offered, nodding toward the windows.

“There on our occasional table is our copy of the Times.” It took some effort to move away from her, but he managed it. He sauntered over and picked up the newspaper. Rose retrieved her wine and took a tentative sip. “Do we read the Times? Are we Times people?”

“It comes with the flat. I do the crossword.”

“Oh.” He tossed the paper carelessly aside. It slid across the table and spilled to the floor. “You go off to work and you come home and we...?” He looked at her expectantly. “What is it we generally do when you come home?”

She barely considered his question before answering, “Eat. Probably. Usually, I shower...change...read or watch telly.”

“Are you hungry?”

“A bit, but...”

He held up a forestalling hand. “I'll make us a light supper. You shower and change.”

“But...I don't need a shower. Do I?” Pointing her nose at her shoulder, she sniffed delicately. “I could change, I suppose.”

“Into something more comfortable?”

“Anyone else would make that sound suggestive,” Rose jibed. “You really aren't very good at the domestic are you?”

Hearing an underlying criticism, he pinched his eyes closed. Tipping his head back, he sighed and said, “I am making a muddle of this.”

“No,” she said, instantly contrite. “You're doing fine, really. This is just awkward. I'm not used to you being so...available, I suppose. It's bound to take some adjus...”

“I need to relax,” he blurted, interrupting her. The pitch of his voice rose as, clutching his hair, he paced across the room. “I know it's not what you're used to. You're used to Mickey and Jack and Jimmy Stone, all of them manly men with manly appendages hanging about. It's simple biology. I want to get on with things. I just can't get on with things. Assuming you even want to...get on.”

Risking a sidelong glance at her, he could see the wheels turning in her mind as she processed his rambling. She scowled and pointed at him. “When you say 'need,'” her pointing finger came up to tap her chin, “you 'need to relax?' Do you mean you can't...” her line of sight dropped to his trouser zip, “...perform, if you don't?”

“Yes,” he exclaimed, elated to have it out in the open. “Exactly. I can't be all...phallic for you.”

Her face lost a good measure of its happy glow. “Oh.”

“It's not that I don't want to, Rose. I do. But if you were one of my kind, Gallifreyan, you'd be giving off sexual trace, pheromones, signals. And it would be our mating season. We're seasonal. The sun dictates receptiveness. No more Gallifrey. No more sun. No more biological drives.”

“Is that why you never...?” She broke off blushing hot pink. “I mean, you said you had moves. You wanted me to spend the rest of my life with you. But you never tried to, well, make a move.”

“Right. Yes. I have moves. But they aren't human moves. We can have sex...eventually. Until then, there are lots of things we can do.”

“But not,” Rose's head wobbled as she considered her euphemistic choices, “shag?”

“Not right away, no! My...equipment is internal. To protect it from the elements.” Confused, she furrowed her brow and he rushed on with his explanation. “My...phallus. It has to descend. Before it can do that, I need to process certain signals. If I don't get those signals, I really, really need to relax. My people don't breed like humans. We've got pheromones and phases of the suns to stimulate us. Without those incentives, we just take longer to become receptive.”

“How long?”

“It's relative,” he squeaked. “You're a different species. It takes you ten, maybe twelve, minutes to reach full arousal.” He see-sawed one hand as he went on, “I know, you think it takes longer, but studies show you're equally lascivious, male or female, no matter. You. Not you, Rose, but human females in generally, aren't as focused, of course, or as aggressive as Gallifreyan females. And there's the problem right there. I need aggression.”

“I thought you needed to relax.”

“From you,” he peeped. Oh, this was so very hard to talk about. Gallifreyan males don't initiate mating, that was all there was to it. He met Rose's eye, reaching for her. “I need you to,” he balled up his outstretched hand into a fist and growled, “take charge.”

“Oh,” she shifted uneasily. Her right hand went to her throat, stroking downward as she asked, “Do you mean...order you about? Smack you over the head with a club or something?”

“Yes! No.” He shook his head. “Smack me over the head with...?” Appalled by the concept, he wrinkled his nose and glared at her. “What? No! I need to feel safe. I can't relax, perform, until I feel...”

“Safe?” Rose blinked and stiffened, trying to wrap her mind around such an alien concept. “You don't feel safe?”

He gave up. He wanted to disappear, just drop through the floor. Logically, there was nothing to be ashamed of. He was doing the best he could under the circumstances. They were two different species. This certainly wasn't what either of them were used to in intimate relationships. Rose, he felt, was being particularly obtuse about this. Other humans had been willing to jump on him and force the issue.

But he knew those people were the exception. Human males didn't generally need coddling or coaxing. He'd watched Mickey and Jack approach Rose to ask for sex. Mickey had suggested a hotel room. He'd tried to do the same, or at least make things clearer to her, but she'd never seemed to understand. He'd made himself available. But he'd been too conditioned by his upbringing to press her. He couldn't speak, tell her what he wanted for them and needed from her. She'd been taken before he could work up enough nerve for a move.

But now, he'd found her again. And he needed this to work. He tried to marshal his scampering thoughts and breathe away his mounting unease. The world was lurching around him. If she kept him in suspense much longer, he'd probably bolt and run. Maybe they should take a break. Try again tomorrow.

“Could we please just...I don't know...”

“Eat? Shower? Change?” Rose suggested, beaming sweetly at him. Her stiffness had melted away, replaced by a sharp sense of purpose. “Be ourselves?”

When he nodded mute agreement, she closed the distance between them in a few strides. Unable to stop himself, he jerked back when she crossed into his personal space, shying sideways like a startled colt. Rose caught him by his tie. She gently reined him in and, moving deliberately, caressed his chest and shoulder. Slowly the tightly wound tension in his gut uncoiled. As he relaxed, he swayed into her. She reached up to stroke her fingers along his cheek and he turned his face into her palm.

“You make us a snack,” she said, softly, “and I'll go slip into something more comfortable.” And that, he thought, was how you made the suggestion sound seductive.

He exhaled in relief. “Capital. Absolutely. Food. Yes! Good idea.”

 

END THIS PART


	2. Chapter 2

PART TWO

Rose showed the Doctor around her kitchen, and then left him rummaging in the cupboards. She could tell by his tutting that he didn't think much of her food choices, but he twiddled his fingers and grinned at her as she sauntered away. She felt dazed but kept her head held high, her shoulders squared and her steps unhurried. Knowing he would be listening, she maintained a sedate pace, cool as you please, all the way down the hall to her bedroom. But as soon as she'd closed the door behind her, she sagged against it and covered her face with both hands.

_Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!_

He was here. In her apartment. In person. The Doctor. Her Doctor. He'd come home.

“Thank you,” she whispered, casting her gaze heavenward. “Thank you!”

Letting the wonder of an answered prayer wash over her, she lowered her hands, clasping them as she pressed them to her lips. She seemed to have a permanent smile. Even blind panic couldn't wilt it. Heart pounding, she let her eyes sweep the room. His bag lay open on the end of the bed. Those were his suits in her closet. Those were his books on the bedside table. That was his jacket on her...his pillow. His pillow, because it was his side of the bed. His clean, spicy, not-quite-human scent would linger there like it used to linger in the TARDIS. It was on her hands now. She cracked them apart like the cover of a book and buried her nose between them to savor the exotic, yet comfortingly familiar aroma. It would be all over her soon.

Oh, my God!

Alarm bells clanged inside her skull. He wanted her to seduce him. She couldn't even seduce Jack! And elderly nuns could seduce Jack Harkness. Jack had once propositioned a lamp post. Her hand went to her trouser pocket, fumbling for her mobile phone. She needed to call her mother. Jackie would know what to do.

She recalled her youthful amazement at her mum's easy way with the lads. Jackie had used her feminine wiles to get anything she'd needed out of mostly willing men. If the car stopped running, sooner or later some bloke would show up with his tools greased and ready to set thing right. Green grocers brought around bags of oranges. Postmen carried heavy furniture all the way down stairs to the curb. Growing up in Jackie Tyler's shadow had been more intimidating than enlightening for Rose. Men did Jackie's bidding. Rose got pats on the head and chucks under the chin. Even when she started to fill out, she failed to pull attention from her mum.

Rose was a tom boy not a siren. Blokes liked to pal around with her before getting a leg over. To this day, even counting the balloon animal incident with all the hopping which the Doctor never let her forget, her most embarrassing moment was the night she'd tried charming Jimmy Stone out of taking his drugs. He'd called her useless and shoved her aside. Mickey had been kinder. Whenever she'd been in the mood, he'd generally fallen in line with her plans. But he'd never taken her seriously. Trotting out the black lace knickers and high heels inspired him to make off-color jokes, yodel like Tarzan and wrestle her into giggling submission.

Not that she'd mind if the Doctor wanted to wrestle and giggle with her. They'd gotten up to that once or twice, near the end. The memory of it made her fan her face with her free hand like an old lady having vapors. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she couldn't help rolling her eyes. This was ridiculous. She tucked the mobile phone back in her trouser pocket. No way was she calling Jackie for advice. It would be useless anyway. The lot of them, her mum, dad, Pete, Jr., Mickey and Jake would only troop over to see the Doctor and they'd end up staying all night. Rose shook her head. She could do this. How hard could it be to seduce the man you loved more than chocolate and days off combined? He wanted her. She wanted him. Neither of them were virginal innocents.

Except it did seem like her first time, alien and new. Sex with the Doctor. She tried to imagine it, but only managed to conjure the earlier euphoria of being held in his arms and snogged silly. His hugs intoxicated her. His kisses left her reeling. All the time they were together, she'd never wanted more than to hold his hand, stay by his side forever. She'd been content with that. Only when she'd lost him did she succumb to raw desire. On her own, late at night, loneliness hounded her until all she could think of was what he might be like as a lover. In this very apartment, in that very bed, she'd done what she had never dared to do in the TARDIS; she'd dreamed of having him inside her.

It had to be possible, she reckoned. He had something between his legs. She'd seen it. Stripped naked, he'd looked generally male to her. True, she hadn't studied him as closely as her mum would have, but she had no reason to suspect his private parts would be less humanoid than the rest of him. Except, now, he was telling her there was more to them. Something hidden inside, he'd said. It could be anything. What if it was hideous? What if it was laughable?

_What if he eats me afterward? Like poor Owen Harper when he picked up that Rigelian Mantis for a one-night stand._

Rose snorted. “He's not going to eat you,” she told her whey-faced reflection. “At least not in the praying mantis, Racnoss sort of way.”

“Did you have the Racnoss?” the Doctor yelped in the distance, sounding interested.

“Oh, God, I forgot about the super-hearing,” Rose groaned, blushing to her toes. Yet another reason she never pleasured herself on the TARDIS. It was bad enough having him comment about her showers and how often she used the loo. He had no sense of privacy when it came to some things.

“It's telepathically enhanced,” he bellowed from afar. A moment later, his lowered voice came from just beyond the bedroom door. “And I promise not to eat you. Nibble, maybe, or lick?”

She'd also forgotten how silently he could move. “Doctor! Go...cook,” she ordered, slapping an impatient palm against the door. She sounded less like a dominatrix and more like a desperately nervous teenager.

“Things are simmering,” he said, his tone leaving her with the distinct feeling he wasn't talking about dinner.

Rose tried not to think. She waited, ear pressed to the door, hand at her throat, until she heard him stride back down the hall. Blowing out a breath, she straightened and, after the briefest hesitation, stripped off her blouse. She tossed it onto the bed as she moved further into the room. After emptying her pockets, she stooped to remove her shoes. Trousers, knickers and bra joined her discarded shirt.

Scooping up the pile, she carted it to the laundry hamper. Concern that he might bound in on her in the middle of her shower made her close the bathroom door behind her. Two security barriers might give him pause or they might not. He was difficult to predict. Her hair she pulled high up and tied in a loose chignon. She didn't want to take the time to blow it dry again. While the shower heated, she tissued off her makeup and brushed her teeth. Might as well get used to facing him au natural.

The hot shower washed away a good measure of her tension. She let the heavy spray pound her curved shoulders for a time before sudsing up with Bella Rosa body soap. She knew the natural fragrances, verbena and vanilla, would delight the Doctor's delicate senses. Soon after she'd come on board, he had turned quite firm with her about shower gels and such. Too many chemicals made his head swim, he'd said. He'd given in on hair dye but he'd ranted and raved and lectured until she'd agreed to let him reverse engineer her other beauty products to more natural states. Twentieth century cosmetic companies were, according to him, pickling her cells in a stew of toxins and he didn't want her altering her DNA just to smell vaguely of gardenias or whatever.

Over time, Rose had grown quite fond of the new lighter fragrances he'd created. Before she'd started working for Torchwood, her father had encouraged her to design a similar line of Earth-friendly cosmetics based on what she could remember of the Doctor's formulas. The resulting Bella Rosa label sold like lemon ice on a sweltering day. And, now that he was here, the Doctor could help refine the products and make them even more appealing and safe.

'Well, there's one way to make money,' Rose thought as she toweled dry.

Pride created such a swelling sensation in her chest, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying. He really was the most wonderful person in this or any other universe. She hadn't forgotten, but until last month, she'd had only the vaguest expectation of ever seeing him again. The lengths he'd gone to just to say goodbye had convinced her more than anything else that he truly couldn't reach her. She knew he would have come to her in person if he'd been able to do so. And sure enough here he was, hard on the heels of discovering how to bridge the void. And he loved her. She'd always known that, of course. But there was no denying how wonderful it felt to have him say it.

Fresh and clean, she turned her attention to a suitable outfit for seduction. She opened the wardrobe and looked over her choices. Again, she considered the Doctor's more sensitive system. He liked to taste and touch. He didn't really care about visual stimulation. At least not in the same way a human man might. Lace negligees and panties wouldn't entice him. During their travels, she'd mumbled “might as well be wearing a bin bag” so often he'd taken to suggesting she do just that. “All the same to me,” he'd chime cheerfully, making her want to smack him. Esthetically, he enjoyed what his culture found fashionable. Madame Pompadour might come close with her full silk skirts and elaborate brocade bodices, but Rose couldn't hope to mimic the court costumes of the Time Lords. She decided to dress for comfort and accessibility.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He burned the toast three times but managed to get dinner on the table before Rose returned. Setting the covered basket of toast next to her plate, he plopped into a chair and drew her laptop over to him. He was busy rewiring it when she entered the room. He didn't need to glance her way to be completely aware of her. When she padded down the hall on still damp, bare feet, he started to tingle in anticipation. His orienting senses had fixated on her as soon as he'd arrived in this dimension. They told him exactly where and when she was at any moment. Rose remained oblivious to this aspect of his attraction to her--how easily he could find her in a crowd or a city. He didn't lose her like he lost other people. She was his lodestone, magnet to his steel.

Naturally, his highly evolved senses were far more discerning than any human faculties would be. He was not only telepathic, but empathic if the mood was conducive to it. He could sense her excitement and fear and arousal. The soft drape and swish of her clothing played in his ear like music. He could gauge the state of her nerves when she paused in the doorway to study him. She leaned into the door frame, giving him a moment to think about what would happen next.

What would happen? He wasn't completely sure. Rose obviously wasn't naturally aggressive. He'd shared a bed with her in their travels, hugged and tickled her. He'd given her any number of broad hints about his intentions. They'd even discussed how to rear children. Children! That was beyond forward for his kind. Gallifreyan males didn't mention children until they were told to expect some. He supposed if they were ever going to expect children, he'd have to give Rose more incentive to molest him. He thought about what he might do differently as he adjusted the settings on her laptop.

“This takes me back,” she said and he lifted his gaze from his tinkering. He must have seemed dumbstruck because she explained without prompting. “You jiggery-pokering about in your shirtsleeves. Used to give me a thrill, like I was catching you with your kit off.”

He stood hastily, his mouth dry and uncooperative. Even if he'd known what to say to such a confession, his parched throat wouldn't have provided words. Funny to think of her lusting after him just as he was thinking she never had. Imagine her enticed by a glimpse of his forearm, like a Victorian gentleman spotting a flash of ankle. She'd wanted him, then. That was encouraging. She'd always seemed oblivious to his masculinity. She'd once gone so far as to question it. “I mean...men,” she'd said, clearly leaving him out of that company.

Drinking her in, he could see her point really. No doubt a man confronted with such a vision would know what to do at this juncture, while he felt completely inadequate to the task ahead of him. How could he possibly approach her as a human lover might? She was beautiful. He knew he didn't have much of an eye for the ladies, but Rose was beautiful on so many levels, her appeal was hard to miss. She smelled heavenly and moved with determined grace. Her eyes sparkled. Her honey-gold hair shined. She'd tied it into a messy chignon. He longed for permission to set it free. To pet her. Taste her. Cuddle her close.

She was dressed for cuddling in a simple outfit of silvery slacks and a black top. The outfit surprised him. She generally wore utilitarian clothing and he paid little attention to it. These slacks hung loose. Their wide, stretchy waistband rode low on her hips. The boxy blouse swung from her shoulders. It had a square neckline, three big square button and quarter-length, full sleeves. The hem stopped just short of meeting the top of her slacks, leaving a sliver of smooth skin bare. He'd have to lick the material to discover its exact composition. It might be a silk blend. Or rayon. Something synthetic maybe.

Although...probably...strictly speaking it didn't matter he told himself sternly, reining in further speculation. Really, he had enough on his mind without dithering over fashion. What mattered was the overall effect of the material. Both slacks and blouse were soft and flowed over her like water when she walked. Tantalizing glimpses of her exposed belly and the rocking swivel of her hips held him enthralled as she approached.

She kept coming, past his boundaries and into his comfort zone. There was a banked fire at her core. His heat regulating glands gave him more information than she knew. She wore nothing underneath her slacks and top. He targeted her aroused interest through the thin layer of her clothing. Her hardened nipples radiated energy and she was wet and hot between her legs. Physically, she seemed ready, but she gave no easily interpreted sign of it. Framing his face with her hands, she went up on her toes to bring her mouth to his and kiss him soundly. She tasted of mint and, unfortunately, fluoride. He'd have to address her dental care without delay.

Still, the kiss held sweet intention. He wanted to enjoy it, but he instinctively squirmed, his torso twisting. The urge to escape from such close quarters nearly unmanned him. His arms lifted, flailing slightly, as if he were a clipped bird, hoping to fly. Before panic could take hold, he thought to seize Rose at her exposed waist. Skin-on-skin, he knew her. This is the woman you love, his palms and fingertips told him. Primal synapses clicked over, firing off new instructions. She was satiny smooth and welcoming. Recognition cleared his head, reminding him of what they were going to do later this very night. They would have to get closer. He wanted to get closer. It would be lovely to be inside her, sheltered and safe. He started to relax, only to have the kiss end.

Sparkling eyes dancing with mischief, Rose purred, “Hungry?”

He stared down into her for a second and then squeaked, “Peas!”

As she'd settled back onto her heels, his hands had disappeared under her loose blouse. His thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts and she gasped. Oh, that sound stirred him deep. He drew a shaky breath and tried to elaborate on his earlier comment.

“Creamed peas.” He swallowed convulsively. “Creamed peas on toast...for supper. And ice cream after, with fruit in a rum sauce.”

She placed her palms flat against his chest and stood on tip-toe again to see over his shoulder. “I had fruit?”

He reluctantly shifted his grip, afraid he would be holding her breasts when she came back down this time. He shouldn't be afraid of that, but he was. He was pretty sure breast-holding would carry them beyond the point of no return.

“I brought fruit,” he corrected primly. “You had pears.” He gave a tiny theatrical shiver and curled his lip in a pained manner. “In a tin. Tinned pears.”

“How horrible for you,” she said, patting his bicep affectionately.

“I disposed of them.”

“I suppose I'll have to give them up, now you're staying.”

“Only if you're intend to go on kissing me,” he said, concentrating on prying his fingers from her ribs. They didn't seem to want to let go.

“Oh, I do,” she said and she kissed him again.

This time he barely twitched. Though his pulse skittered rather alarmingly when her tongue touched his. Sparks arched up and down his spine and he felt his loins relaxing. Another thing he'd have to explain, the cold rush of exposure. He couldn't go around unfulfilled, just hanging about like a human male. Once he managed to relax, once his sex descended, things would need to move along quickly. He'd need to be inside her, then, almost immediately. Rose drew her nails along his shoulder blade. Shivering, he latched onto her. A guttural growl escaped him as his hands cupped her hip bones, fingers curling into the yielding flesh of her bottom.

Her skin had a delicious blush. Waves of heat splashed over him with each hammer of her heart. Her nipples felt hot enough to burn through his shirt. They glowed like tiny coals, inflamed and inflaming. He wrapped both arms around her, lifting her off her feet. She molded to him, clinging like the little ape she was. Rassilon help him, he shouldn't find that quite so erotic but he did.

Coming out of the kiss, she skimmed his cheek to snuffle in the hollow of his neck. He concentrated on releasing receptive pheromones while she burrowed into him, obviously enjoying his scent. Again, he felt the wrenching quake all over as he opened below. Need tightened his grip on her. All she had to do was keep pressing him like this. He was almost ready. He longed to complete the circuit, let her into his mind. There was a definite heaviness low in his abdomen. But when he set Rose's feet on the ground, freeing his hands so he could bring them to her temples, she stepped away and he lost his momentum. He grimaced as the protective cartilage around his emerging sex snapped closed like a clamshell. Damn!

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked, examining the table setting.

He glared at the back of her head in mute frustration, thinking, 'Kiss me. Go on kissing me. Take control so we can... Oh, bother.'

She needed more encouragement.

“Champagne,” he manged to peep, jutting his chin to indicate a pair of fluted glasses. Since she wasn't looking at him, he cleared his throat and added, “It's chilling in the refrigerator. Top shelf, left.”

“I had...?” she began as she headed for the kitchen, but caught herself and grinned over her shoulder at him. “You brought champagne in your coat pocket? All the way from the other universe?”

“I thought we might want to celebrate...something,” he said slightly defensive.

“You're a treasure, you are.” Rose said, flashing him a glimpse of pink tongue. She hummed happily as she bounced to the refrigerator, drew forth the bottle and examined the label. “Or, I should say, your coat is. Bananas, berries, rum, champagne. What else did you bring?”

“Ice cream,” he said, noticing she was already looking at the carton of caramel crunch softening in the fridge.

“How deep are those pockets, anyway?”

“Quite extensive. But I only brought the barest necessities. First aid supplies and medicines... gadgets...tools...champagne...”

“Ice cream.”

“Things we might be hard pressed to find in a pinch. And, of course, I always carry an emergency kit.”

“I remember. Looking glass, firecrackers, matches, flasks of rum and water, a banana or two and a pocket torch,” Rose recited.

“Never know when you might need a bit of potassium or a light...or...a small explosive.”

“We do have champagne in this universe, you know? And bananas.”

“Yes, but not precisely here,” he pointed out, hand rubbing along the base of his skull, ruffling through his hair. “You wouldn't want me popping off to the market when...you might want to hold that bottle over the sink. Bound to have taken a shaking on the trip over.”

“How many pieces of toast did you burn?” Rose teased, noticing the crumbs around the sink disposal as she unwrapped the wire and foil surrounding the champagne cork.

“Two or three. Six? Is it my fault you don't own a proper toaster?” He smiled to soften his incensed tone. “The one thing I forgot to pack. It's always something. Bring your sonic screwdriver. Forget your toothbrush. Bring your toothbrush. Forget the toaster. Just give me functional equipment...something from say Lloyd's of Belkinzinar and I will astound you with my toasting skill. If we lived anywhere else in the universe we'd have a proper toaster. But, no...you come from a sadly backward planet...spring-loaded mechanisms and heating coils? Who thinks of such things?”

“I'll check the alien artifacts at Torchwood. Maybe I can find you a proper toaster.”

The champagne cork popped and the bottle sighed. “Le soupir amoureux,” the Doctor declared, then translated for Rose, “The loving whisper, what the French call that noise. Clever people, the French, they've got a name for everything.”

“Rather like the Inuit,” Rose agreed, as she returned to fill their glasses. “A thousand names for snow.”

“More like 806,” the Doctor said, holding her chair for her.

“I've heard it said the Germans have a thousand words for sorrow.”

“Poetic license. English has quite a few sorrowful words, come to that. Now, the Mplezkk'yt,” he confided with a knowing nod, “the most artistically inclined people in the universe, actually do have a thousand different ways of saying, 'you're blocking my light.' And my language, of course, has well over a thousand words for time. Three thousand six hundred and twenty-eight to be precise. But my favorite example of linguistic excess is the Ploo of S'nississenoo.”

“The Ploo of...?” Rose snickered, sending champagne bubbles up her nose. Once she'd recovered, she asked, “Are they anything like The Who?”

“The band?”

“No, the other ones. The ones Horton heard? The little Seuss-y fellows.” Processing his blank look, she elaborated, “Doctor Seuss? Horton the Elephant? I took P.J. to see the movie last year. His whole room is done up like Whoville. He's mad about them.”

Fork halfway to his mouth, he continued to gape at her. “Seuss-y...?” he began, his brow furrowing, but then he made the connection. “Oh, oh, like the Grinch?” The flippancy of her reference caused such a giddy lift in his spirits that he put his fork down and scooted his chair around the table to her side. “Did you know the Grinch was a Who?” Rose shook her head. “I'd forgotten until just now. All of that present pilfering and awakening of the Christmas spirit takes place in a single snowflake. Little Whovians singing their Whovian songs. A person's a person no matter how small,” he mused on that for a moment, then said, “But the Ploo are largish with teal-colored carapaces and I mentioned them because, at last count they had ten-thousand eight-hundred and fifty-two ways of saying, 'I love you.' And...and,” he added, brows arching and head bobbling to stress his point, “they have a planet-wide competition every year to come up with new ways.”

“They must be a romantic lot.”

“You would think so, but no.” He wrinkled his nose and scratched his ear, perplexed. “Actually, I'm not sure they ever get around to the romance. All of them far too busy trying to outdo one another with overblown declarations of affection.”

“Sounds like a children's book,” Rose said as she spooned peas over her toast. “The moral being talk is cheap, or some such.”

“Are there always morals in children's books?” he wondered aloud. Then, having thought about a few hundred plots in a second or so, added, “I suppose there are.”

Rose ate a few bites, beamed enthusiastically and complimented him on his cooking. Only she would consider opening a tin of peas and making a cream sauce a culinary feat. He reached for his plate and glass, arranging them on her side of the table. She pulled her laptop around to see what he had done to it. A stray lock of hair escaped her chignon when she leaned forward. The strands fell into her eyes and, intent on studying the oddly twisting connector he'd welded into her Firewire port, she impatiently tucked the hair behind her ear.

“It's like my cell phone,” she said, still examining his handiwork. “It works across time and space?”

“Yes, exactly,” he said. He started to reach around her to hit a few keys and quickly decided she should do the typing for him. “Access the Internet,” he told her, leaving his arm draped about her shoulders. “You can go online and find any computer, anywhere, any when, any time or place. Well, any time with computers. Any computer with Internet service. Well, Internet service or accessible phone lines. Just about. There are a few security issues. But the point is that that little gizmo, er...doodad...is a temporally flexible wireless connection, linking this laptop to the past or the future...or the present, whenever, wherever, via satellite beam or ground line. Whichever," he added, for the symmetry. "Cybernetic technology is a tad more advanced in this reality so with the stroke of a few keys...zippity do dah, I'm a citizen of the British Commonwealth." Proud of his new standing in society, he beamed broadly. But then, sobered a little as he went on to explain how he'd accomplished it. "The government records go back eighty years. I've created a false history for myself. Bank accounts, birth records, schools, driver's licenses, taxes, everything.”

Rose cocked her head to gaze fondly on him. “You'd make a fantastic criminal mastermind.”

“I've thought of that,” he said. “It's a way to make money and we'd meet a lot of interesting people. But I imagine it would disrupt our home life.”

“I would expect you to cover your tracks.”

“I would,” he told her, seriously. “But what of my associates? Criminal types are notoriously unreliable. ”

“True,” she mused. “And eventually Torchwood would find you out. We get all the alien masterminds in the end. I'd have to cart you off to the lock up and throw away the key.”

“That'd put some spice in our sex life,” he said. "Press F-7."

She did and a picture appeared on screen. It looked to be a teenage version of the Doctor in a school sporting uniform. “Oh, I like that! Makes me believe you were a child once.”

“I was a child once.”

“Not like this you weren't. You played cricket?” she asked, noting the uniform and bat.

“I did. I'm a fine bowler. Well...I say fine. Good. Adequate. I should say adequate. No need to draw unnecessary attention.”

She couldn't contain her mirth as she read the picture's caption. “D'Artagnan Delatardis?”

“Delatardeese,” he corrected, giving the surname a French lilt. “We still use the Gallic pronunciation. Though the family immigrated in my great, great grandfather's time from the north of France. I grew up in Southwark, same as you. Though not in the estates.”

“I'm more interest in the D'Artagnan,” Rose laughed, edging around in their close quarters to face him.

Bright red, he avoided her gaze as he confessed. “I always wanted to be a Musketeer. And it will go a long way toward explaining why my nearest and dearest call me Doctor.”

“Embarrassed by your name. Clever,” she sighed, as she snuggled into his embrace. His encircling arm drew her closer.

Dipping his chin, he pressed the blade of his nose against her cheek. “Still hungry?” he whispered.

Her breath caught. “How...?” she asked huskily before clearing her throat. “How did we meet?”

“Through your friend Ricky.”

“Mickey?”

“I didn't take his head off this time, though,” he said, before lightly kissing her temple. Her erratic thoughts tumbled around under his lips.

She lifted a hand and stroked tentative fingers through his hair. “Are you a medical doctor, then?”

“I am.” He nibbled his way down her throat to her collar. Caressing her was getting easier, coming to him naturally. He began to enjoy himself. “Oxford and then St. Barts, where I originally went in our universe. I had the diplomas on file for my Bachelors of Medicine and Surgery. All I had to do was update them for 1992. I'm a certified teacher as well.”

Rose's heated whisper feathered along his cheek. “You've been busy.”

“I started young,” he said. He traced the very tip of his tongue along the neckline of her blouse, just under the edge of it, then added, “And I am brilliant.”

“You are,” she murmured, pillowing her head against shoulder and arching her back to give him better access to her neckline. They were practically sitting in one chair now. “So, do you have a surgery somewhere?”

He smiled down on her. “No, I don't practice. I write books.”

This interested her so much she sat forward in the chair, breaking contact as she shifted into her seat to stare at him. “What sort of books?”

“Children's books.”

“Like Dr. Seuss?”

“A bit, only not as successful, of course.” He was disappointed that the cuddling was over but he dutifully brought up an online bookstore and typed in his assumed name. A string of titles appeared on screen.

“Hang on,” Rose declared. “You're already published?”

“Any computer, anywhere, any when,” he reminded her. “I sent my first three manuscripts back in time.”

“Three? But...I'd have seen you in the stores.”

“Would you have noticed?”

“I shop for P.J.,” she said, but she sounded doubtful.

“Pete Jr. is what now? Three?”

“Four, last April.

He shrugged. “A little young, yet, for my books. Give him a few years.”

Rose giggled helplessly as she processed the first book title. “Flack Mackerel and the Rift in Space,” she crowed, pointing at a cartooned book cover. “Oh, you wouldn't? Is that Jack?”

“I was going to call him Captain Haddock but the name was already taken.”

“He should sue you for slander.” Reading aloud, she said, “'Intergalactic Adventurer Flack Mackerel faces his deadliest foe, yet, the Postulator.' He's a fish! Look at him.”

“What? I think it's a perfect likeness. Square-jaw and steely-eye. He'd be flattered.”

Burbling with laughter, Rose collapsed back into his waiting arms. Then, twisting around, she braced her knee by his thigh and straddled his lap to murmur against his lips. “You always were jealous of Jack.”

“Jealous?” he piped, as she stroked her tongue down his cheek to his earlobe. “No. No. I was never jealous. I was merely...concerned. For your...uhm...you and he were rather....that is he is a bit...uh....” She'd insinuated her fingers into the space between his shirt buttons and was popping the buttons open one at a time as her tongue explored the curls of his ear. His hands, moving with a purpose of their own, had started fumbling with the band restraining her hair. Some seconds later, he realized he'd lost the thread of the conversation. “What was the question?”

She sat straighter just as her hair came undone. It spilled over her face. Her eyes locked with his through a blond veil of silken strands. “Were you jealous?”

“Yes,” he admitted, drawing her into an blatantly possessive kiss.

He clutched her close and she wriggled against him for awhile, her mouth caressing his. She was deliciously soft and slick inside. Even the fluoride didn't bother him too much. His hands found their way around her bottom and under her blouse to explore the planes and curves of her back. He already knew her back intimately from their many hugs, but he'd always found that bare skin offered deeper insight. Through the prickling of her skin, Rose told him she was still shy. Her muscles clenched when he skimmed a hand under the waistband of her slacks. Her blood eddied and swirled under his probing fingertips. He could feel her pulse quicken as their kissing intensified. He concentrated his petting efforts toward pushing her into a sensual frenzy.

He toyed with the curve of her bum and the slopes of her breasts, tracing patterns on the sensitive skin but steadfastly avoiding any obvious trigger points. Cradling her above and below, he suckled along the shallow valley of her cleavage. Her breathing became strained. She rocked back and forth, leaning into his stroking hands. Her fingers clawed at his shirt, nearly tearing it from him. It went flying once he helped her tug it free. She ignored his undershirt. Both of her hands clutched at his hair. Holding on, she tilted his head back and her mouth found his again, coming down hard. He opened all over when her tongue lapped into him. He thought about taking her to the floor, but she slithered from his grasp, edging off the chair to stand while simultaneously sliding her hands down to clasp his wrists.

“We need the bed,” she said, drawing him up out of his seat. "Now!"

Bed, what a good idea. But...this was all moving rather quickly. His glassy gaze went to the cluttered table. “Shouldn't I tidy up first?” he asked.

“No,” she insisted, firmly tugging him toward the hallway. “You should do as I say.”

“Oh,” he breathed, stumbling as an icy surge of hormones jellied his knees and set him shuddering all over. “Okay.”

 

END THIS PART


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

Desire too long suppressed carried Rose as far as her bedroom door. But as soon as she caught sight of the bed, her courage faltered. Determined not to give in to the chill of insecurity she turned back to seize the Doctor, kissing him with fierce intent. His ardent response warmed her up again. He clutched at her with such eagerness she lost her balance and they stumbled into the room in an awkward tangle of limbs. Rose aimed for the bed, but banged her elbow on the door frame and wobbled off target. The Doctor grunted an apology but neither of them bothered to check their forward momentum. Rose's foot snagged on something as they careened across the room. One of her carelessly discarded shoes. She glanced down at it in dismay as she lurched sideways.

“Steady,” the Doctor warned, catching her before she could fall. The break in the action allowed him to sweep a glance across the chaos in the room. A tiny frown marred his features. When his eyes fixed on his open luggage, he grimaced. “I should finish unpacking.”

“No! No, no.” Rose skirted around him, snapped the suitcase closed and quickly disposed of it by shoving it under the bed. As she tucked it away, she grumbled, “Why are you suddenly so domestic? I lived with you for years. You used to throw your clothes everywhere. Please...just...” She ran out of breath and nerve at the same time.

She couldn't do this alone, couldn't seduce him if he refused to cooperate, if he was busy folding underwear. Hoping to reignite his interest, she grasped him by his shirt front. He gasped when she twisted the fabric in one fisted hand and ran her other hand up under the hem. The texture of his skin entranced her. It felt smoother than P.J.'s baby fresh skin. It was like flower petals, creamy soft. She couldn't help lingering over his differences. The alien play of his muscles spoke to her on the most primal level, informing her of the wrongness of wanting this inhuman thing. And yet, she did want him.

His wide-eyed stare returned to her as she had that thought, holding steady on her face while she stroked his chest. She could sense him reading the surface of her mind, skimming her thoughts. It occurred to her to silently command him to remove his shirt. He obediently lifted his arms, pulling at the fabric in her fist. The rounded tips of her nails grazed his ribs when she let go. He hissed and closed his eyes, but drew the bunched cotton up over his head. As he cast the shirt aside, his resultant shiver told her he'd shuffled sex to the top of his priorities list again.

“Your luggage can wait,” she said, taking his hands and pulling him down with her as she tumbled into the bed. “I can't.”

“Why were we waiting?” he wondered, adjusting his body to distribute his weight evenly along her frame.

“We're not the brightest people in the universe?”

He chuckled against her ear, appreciating the humor. “Oh, I do love you, Rose Tyler,” he said.

A languid heat swirled low in her belly. Her heart lifted, knocking against her ribs, and for a moment she could think of nothing else but those words. He loved her. He'd said it again. She wanted him to keep on saying it, every day.

Dreaming of those days ahead, she drifted in airy contentment while his fingers fiddled busily with her blouse buttons. He was opening her blouse. The Doctor was unbuttoning her blouse. They were going to be naked together, skin-on-skin, in her bed. They were going to make love. It felt like one of those dreams where everything was so perfect it had to go wrong. She couldn't help thinking she would wake up any second and find she was still living alone. Oh, to have him inside, deep inside. She pushed that thought toward him as she licked and nuzzled her way around his bare shoulder. He tasted real enough. He tasted even better than he smelled, not salty like a man but spicy sweet.

“Perhaps we should reconsider breeding,” he suggested lightheartedly. “Our children are sure to be sadly inept creatures.”

Rose swallowed hard. So much for her happy dream. Children? Had they talked about children? He was alien, a different species. She'd barely passed her biology, but she was fairly certain different species couldn't reproduce. Except, she bit down on her lower lip, there were mules and such. And she'd seen a few odd hybrids at Torchwood. And the Doctor had once remarked on how humans spread across the galaxy, interbreeding with aliens. Which meant she could wake up tomorrow carrying the Doctor's child. Would that be so bad?

Yes. Yes, it would. What if there were complications? She could get sick while pregnant. The children could get sick. She wasn't ready to be a mum. They needed to discuss this. They would get to it right after they finished. She would sit him down and... Rose gave herself a mental slap. No, before...before the sex was when you talked about things like babies. She started shoving at him just as he folded open her blouse and turned his attentions to her nearest breast.

“Protection,” she grated out. Then, “Oh, God that feels good. No. No, hold up a second. Doctor?”

“Hmmm?” he hummed, the vibration augmenting the swirling sweep of his tongue around her nipple.

Her toes curled and she arched into the delicious sensation. For a murky second or so, her higher brain functions shut down. “Fuuh...oh, yes!” she gasped. She needed this so much; had denied the need for so long. No more denying it. Her arms refused to push him away. She clawed up his back, pulling him closer. Her fingers raked into his hair, holding him at his task. A wiser part of her ranted, “No. No. No,” even as she hooked one leg around his hips.

“Rose?” He'd stopped suckling. His voice, full of concern, penetrated the fog in her mind. “What is it? What's wrong?”

She gulped air like she was surfacing from a dive, and then scuttled out from under him. “Children,” she yelped, adrenaline clearing her head. “Babies.” Shaking an admonishing finger, she said, “No.”

“No?” he repeated, clearly bemused.

He shrugged and reached for her again but she huddled into the headboard, clutching her blouse closed, as if she expected him to assault her. Rising to his knees, he let his hands fall into his lap. Rose saw the confusion in his eyes and realized how extreme her reaction must look.

Drawing in a stabilizing breath, she let go of her blouse and said, “Look, it's not that I don't want to...someday.”

His frown told her he was struggling to understand. “Someday?” he drawled, uneasily searching her face, apparently needing more information.

She tried a light laugh but it came out scratchy and strained. “Someday. Yes. Not tonight.” Her mouth felt desert dry. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

The Doctor was still watching her. He spoke carefully. “Okay,” he said.

Indicating her bedside table with a bob of her chin, Rose said, “All I have are condoms.”

His head jutted forward and he squinted. “Sorry?”

“In the drawer,” she said, waving a hand at it. “There's spermicide, but it's old, and I'm betting we can't use it anyway. I know you're sensitive to chemicals.”

“Spermicide?” he scoffed.

“It's just for emergencies,” she told him, embarrassed into defending herself. “Weren't you ever tempted?” He scowled at her. “All right, maybe you weren't, but...” she sighed, “I was. Once or twice. I'll get on the patch again. With the life I've been leading... and all of your warnings about breast cancer and hormone imbalance... I let my prescription lapse, but...”

Still looking puzzled, the Doctor edged toward the bedside table. He kept his face screwed up and his eyes locked on hers, as if careful study might give him some clue what the hell she was talking about. He pulled the indicated drawer open. As he peered into it, he made a choking noise. His jaw dropped, and then he collapsed, folding up like a deck chair in a high wind. Tumbling off the bed, he crumbled to the floor in a heap.

Rose cried out in alarm and crawled across to him. She touched his quaking shoulder. He didn't appear hurt. He was seated against the bed, facing away from it. His arms were crossed in front of him, resting on his raised knees. He had his head down, his face hidden in the crook of one elbow. Rose said his name, but he held up a hand to forestall any questions. It took her a moment to realize his shoulders were shaking with laughter.

“Alright,” she said, swinging her feet to the floor. “What's so funny?”

His muttered reply forced her to inch closer. Her concern evaporated when she heard him chortle, “Definitely not the brightest people in the universe.”

“Oi,” she nudged his hip with her toe. “Stop your sniggering.”

“Sorry,” he gasped. He lifted his head to look at her. His lips were pressed together and his eyes danced with suppressed glee. He held her gaze for a moment and then snorted out another guffaw. “It's just I should have mentioned--I can't wear those. It's too...” He snickered helplessly again, but noting her stern glare, finally managed to composed himself. “I don't have that sort of equipment. Sorry. You couldn't know.”

He couldn't wear condoms. What sort of equipment did he have? Rose let her gaze trace over his bare back and shoulder. She'd never seen him more vulnerable. He wouldn't be laughing if things were as serious as she was imagining, she was certain of that. But she needed to have some issues clarified.

“We can have children?”

“Oh, yes,” he said smiling beatifically. “Of course.”

“I don't want to get pregnant.”

He nodded, nut brown eyes sincere. “You won't. Well...you can't, can you? Not tonight. You're not even close to ovulating. You just finished your menstrual phase...three...no, four days ago. You're still firmly in the proliferative phase.”

She wasn't sure what a proliferative phase was. But he was right about the painters. “How can you possibly...?” she began.

Only to have him lift both brows at her and snort disparagingly. “Oh, come on! I can tell what you had for breakfast yesterday and where you went afterward. You visited the seashore and breathed in too much lorry exhaust on the way. I can distinguish the assorted ratios of essential oils in your shampoo. It's lovely by the way.”

“Thank you,” she said smugly. It was easy to forget they were arguing when he smiled at her that way.

“Quite right. And my point is...was...is," he sniffed, "anything as blatantly obvious as the vast hormonal changes needed for fertility would be...well, blatantly obvious to me.”

“You can tell when I can get pregnant?” she said, weighing his words.

“I have a very sensitive tongue,” he reminded her.

“Seems to me you know a little too much,” Rose said, crossing her arms. “Where I go? What I've been eating? If I've got eggs incubating. Especially with me knowing next to nothing about your inner workings. Why can't you wear the condoms?”

Rubbing a hand along his jaw, he squirmed a bit, staring past her shoulder into the middle distance.

“Just how different is different?”

Obviously reluctant to answer, he pursed his mouth, hissing air through his clenched teeth. “Not very. Well, not much. Somewhat. It's not like it's not, essentially, phallic. Or it will be...for you. But, I'm smaller than let's say, Mickey. Is he average? Or was Jack? Anyway, smaller than the average human male. Although...” he took a breath, considering as he ruffled the hair at the back of his head. “No, no sense denying it. There's a mechanism involved. So size doesn't really matter. Once everything descends, I'll need to...” he nodded vaguely in the direction of her navel, “that is, we will need to...join very quickly.”

This was sounding worse and worse to her. He was small. Tiny? And...there was a 'mechanism?' What the hell did that mean? One worry outweighed all the rest.

“How quick, exactly?” If he was quick, he could leave her completely unfulfilled. Of all the scenarios she'd imagined, she'd never envisioned one where he was small and quick.

“It's not quick. The act, itself, is not quick. The union,” he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. The heel of one hand went to his temple as if he were nursing a migraine. She could tell he really didn't want to talk about this. Too bad. She needed to know.

“You need...that is, human females, need to build to a climax. That won't be a problem. But, I can't linger about after I'm ready. I'll need to be inside you or there will be consequences.”

Despite her concerns, Rose's eyes twinkled and she smirked at him. “Oh, that's a good line, that is. No changing your mind or there will be consequences. What are you going to do? Slip into a coma?” He gave her a solemn look. “Wait? You are joking, right?” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he groaned. “All right, you're not joking. So, once you're ready, if we don't...” she cleared her throat, “get down to business, then, you'll...? What?”

He let his head drop back until it was pillowed on the edge of the mattress. “It all depends on what happens next. If we have to run for our lives or something, then I'll be fine. There's a sort of adrenaline override. But, if you've just changed your mind, then, certain chemical reactions don't occur and I'll be incapacitated. That's why the female has to be the aggressor. So, there's no misunderstandings. We don't have sexual assault on Gallifrey. It's a biological impossibility. If I change my mind, I just clam up. But if you call it all off, last minute...my body temperature drops.”

“You get cold?”

“Very. Cold enough to incapacitate me.”

“Could you die?”

“No. No. I won't die. I'll just be a little...uncomfortable and...possibly...comatose. But, the salient point is you are in charge. I don't want you to worry about me.”

“See this,” Rose snapped, stabbing a finger at him. “This is important. 'I might slip into a coma during foreplay, Rose.' That's the sort of thing a woman likes to hear early on in a serious relationship, not last minute like this. What else don't I know?” He grimaced, glancing away. “Oh, ho! There is something, isn't there?”

“Could be,” he squeaked. Then, he mouthed a completely unintelligible word.

“What?”

“Children,” he said, loudly, cutting his glance in her direction. “Do you ever want...children?”

This is what she got for insisting on honest conversation. It came down to one question. Did she or didn't she? He'd lost his entire world, his family. She could give him a second chance at fatherhood. Did she want to have the Doctor's children? He was looking at her with those beautiful, old eyes. Looking back at him, she just knew. She wanted to have a child with a face like his.

“One day, yeah,” she said. “Right now I'm just not ready to stay home and...”

“Oh, I'd do all that,” he interrupted, flipping over to kneel before her. He took her hand in his, circling his thumb over the back of it. “I wouldn't expect you to give up your career. That's why I decided to be a writer. No nine to five. No cubicle. Don't you just love cubicles? They're like little mazes, something around every corner.” He used a finger to draw a simple labyrinth on her palm. She arched a brow. “No? Little mazes? Where was I? Oh, yes. I can work from home, stay with the children while you are off saving the Earth. Not that I won't help out now and again, if you need me, but...”

“You plan to stay home? Be all...domestic?”

“I'd love to,” he confessed, so pleased with the idea he popped up onto the bed beside her. “I've thought it all out. I know I should have talked it over with you, but I wasn't sure if you wanted children. You called them “terrors” once, you might recall. But they don't have to be. It's all in how they're treated. I'd want to educate them at home. They wouldn't fit in well with humans, not at first.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, dozens of reasons. Blood type. Telepathic convergence. And despite our not being very bright,” he said, bumping his shoulder into hers, “our children will, most probably, be off the charts when it comes to IQ. They won't know how to blend in until we teach them. I'll teach them what I know and you can teach them what I don't know. They'll soon be ready for the human world. You'll see.”

Struggling to accept his vision of their future family, Rose tried not to sound too skeptical. “So, you'll be Mr. Mom?”

“Don't sneer. I do have some experience. I've taken my turn in the crèche on Gallifrey. I've been a dad. And we wouldn't need to have a large family. We can stop at twelve or fifteen.”

Rose was just starting to relax, soothed by the contact with his buttery smooth skin, but this sent her reeling back. “Fifteen?” she yelped, wrenching her hand free of his grip. Scrambling to her feet, she stood to glare down on him as she repeated, “Fifteen?”

He hastened to lower the number. “Twelve? Nine? Any multiple of three, really,” he said, as if making her an offer. “What about six? Although...nine's not so very many. We could have a family cricket team. Are you any good with the bat?”

“I'm not given birth to a bloody cricket team!” Seeing him flinch, Rose took a deep, steadying breath, before she spoke again. “I know you've lost a lot. And God help me, I really do want to have your children. But I'm not about to be pregnant for the next decade. No way. Clear the thought from your mind.”

Looking sheepish, he tugged at an earlobe. “Ah...about that. Normal gestation for my species is two years.”

“Two y...?”

He interrupted before she could blow again. “Yes, but, on the plus side, as a positive, we have multiple births. Litters. Wait, not the best word. Several at once. Obviously, you couldn't do it all in one pregnancy. Not nine. Not with your uterine capacity.” He scratched his outer ear. “I don't think you will carry to term in any case, but if you did...”

“Doctor,” Rose growled, with as much patience as she could summon. “What are you babbling about?”

“Children. Babies. And I'm not babbling. I'm trying to tell you what you wanted to know. If we have children. We...You will have them in threes.”

“Triplets? What...every time?”

“Most likely, although any multiple of three is possible...six...nine.” He held up three fingers and explained, “Each of my gametes carries three strands of DNA. Fertilization triggers a three-way split, cellular division begins with the creation of each of the three sexes.” He ticked his fingers down as he said, “One male, one female and a regenerate.”

“Three?”

“Yes, three at a time. Any multiple of...”

“Sexes,” she barked, making him blink. “Three sexes? Male, Female and...a...a degenerate?”

“Regenerate,” he stressed. “Rhymes with degenerate but has the same root as regeneration. One who regenerates, neither male nor female.”

A cold shiver lifted the hair on Rose's forearms. “But you...? You...regenerate.”

He nodded and smiled and she found her mouth was suddenly very dry. This was too much to take in. She drew in breath to speak, but couldn't and turned away from him. They should go back to the living room. They should sit on the sofa and go over this. Perhaps if he drew her a chart or found a book on alien sexuality, she'd feel better about it. He could start from the beginning and explain it all, using words of one or two syllables. His fingers trailed along her forearm, but she shook him off and strode toward the hallway. When she reached the threshold, she found she didn't have the heart to retreat further and whirled to face him.

“You're not,” she swallowed before saying it, “male, then?”

“I don't have to be, no. I thought you knew.”

“No,” she declared, coloring the word with every ounce of her frustration. Things had been going so well. “No, I didn't know that.” Tears blurred her vision as she flailed one arm at him. “You look like a ruddy man to me. And I know you can change. Every single cell. But you've got...” she swished her hand down to gesture at his trouser front. “Only, I guess from what you've been telling me, you don't.” Clawing together great clumps of her hair, she tugged at them, completely flustered. He hadn't lied to her. She'd been stupid. So human, as he'd say. “If it's inside and...small. Is that why? Because it...you could go either way? Like, if you fell in love with Jack?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I could have gone either way. I thought you understood...after the regeneration. I thought...the the way I looked outside didn't matter.”

Seeing both his hurt expression and his reasoning, Rose felt a wash of guilt. She shouldn't be angry. He'd told her he could look like anything, anyone. He hadn't really qualified it. Two heads. Or no head. Imagine me with no head. And don't say that's an improvement. The regeneration had frightened her. It had changed him so much. She'd thought she'd lost him, but she hadn't. He was still her Doctor, inside, where it mattered. Same man, he'd said, different everything. Same man. He'd wanted her to see him as a man, as a mate.

And she had. They'd been a couple for a long time now. But that was in his magical police box. Anything could happen traveling through time and space. Nothing could touch them in the TARDIS.

This was real life. They were talking about making a home together. They were talking about children. They weren't going to live in some future paradise. They were going to live here on Earth, where the people were unforgiving and judgmental. Sexless children would be isolated and mocked. Worse, they'd be pitied. And so would Rose, if her husband had two heads or no head...or breasts.

“You could be a woman, next time.” It was more a statement than a question. Her intellect didn't have trouble with this idea. Her sense of betrayal was more visceral than reasoned. “One day, if you got hurt and changed, you could...? I might end up married to a Sycorax or a...a pony.”

He flashed his infectious grin. “On the plus side, ponies are very good with children. Can't say that about the Sycorax, though.” Rose gurgled in frustration and he sobered, changing his tone to one of contrition. “We should have talked about this. I know,” he said. He cast his glance downward, studying his clasped hands. “Stupid, to think that....” He sighed and stood, bending to retrieve his shirt, before shuffling toward her. “I can stay in the other room, tonight and tomorrow,” he choked on the word, then lifting his chin repeated it, “Tomorrow, we can talk this out.”

Rose didn't want him to leave. She wasn't sure about much at the moment, but she was sure she didn't want him to leave. When he reached her side, she put a hand out, stopping him before he could maneuver through the door.

“You aren't stupid,” she told him. “You just, believed in me. That I wouldn't care about this.”

“But you do...so...?”

He edged close to the door frame to move past her, but she shifted in front of him. His gaze lifted and locked on hers. There was a question in his eyes. She opened her arms and very tenderly gathered him into a loose embrace. Him. But if he wasn't male...? But he was. On the outside, he felt, looked, sounded male. He was a man in the eyes of the world, her eyes...even his. This question of change was only hypothetical. He might change. He might not. Of course, that was probably why he had no name. Some of their children would have no names. Could she deal with that?

Probably. She loved him, desired him. She wanted a life with her Doctor. There was no one else in the universe for either of them. They completed one another. He murmured an agreement to her mental surrender, tentatively returning her hug. The light swirl of his fingers at the small of her back made her tremble. Her tensed muscles grew rubbery and she curled into him. A careless sweep of his fingertips could take her breath away. That had to be important when considering a partner.

She might not be gay, but if the Doctor woke up female she was pretty sure she'd still be putty in his hands. They'd just have to adjust to it. She knew he was waiting for her to reach a firm decision. He wasn't trying to seduce her, only comfort. But when he brushed his cheek along hers, her common sense evaporated like snowflakes on the tongue. His touch, like his smile, tended to fill her with confidence.

Her mum called them crazy. And perhaps they were, believing they could best anything together. This uncertainty she was feeling was no more frightening than some of the monsters they'd faced. Staring down death on an alien world, she'd looked to him and believed.

Chin resting on her shoulder, he whispered, “Can you trust me?”

She snuggled closer. She did trust him. How could she not, after all they'd been through? Trust had gotten them this far, a universe away from where they'd begun. But she couldn't simply ignore her doubts. Not if they were going to be married, have children. She needed to know what she was getting into with this life he'd never led.

“People can be cruel, Doctor.”

“I know,” he said, his lips feathering against her temple. “My people as well as yours.” He shifted his stance a little so he could see her face. “I have considered this, Rose. Our children will be half-human. They could be as alien to me as they are to you. That's quite...terrifying. But I have thought on a life with you for a very long time.”

“I've only just started thinking,” she said.

He sniffed, lifting his chin to conceded her the point. They were silent for a few heartbeats. Rose considered all he'd given up to be here. His way of life. His beloved TARDIS. He'd lost so much, had so very little left of the familiar. And now he had nothing but her. Aware of how nervous frank conversations made him, Rose still knew she had to explain her concerns.

“I love you. But...in bed, something this different? It's all a bit frightening.”

“I self-identify as male, Rose. I always have. It won't be so very different.”

He stroked her hair. Then, said something in an alien tongue. The strange words soothed her and, through their tenuous empathic connection, she could almost put meaning to them. She sighed and closed her eyes, striving to listen rather than hear. He was trying to reassure her, she was sure of it. The musical cadence of the language swished and drummed in her head like the pulse of distant surf.

“Is that a song?” she asked, letting her hands skate to his waist.

“It's a poem,” he replied in a husky undertone. “It is...oh, so very old.”

His bared chest felt as inhumanly plush as ever against her cheek. She didn't speak again until she could follow the pattern in the complex beating of his hearts. Once she had his rhythm, she loosened her embrace and stepped back.

“How is regeneration a gender?” she asked.

His hands slid down her arms to her elbows. Applying light pressure, he turned her toward the bed. Rose let him guide her across the room. They settled side by side on the very edge of the mattress.

“The ability to regenerate goes hand in hand with gender. A third of my people can regenerate naturally. We are simply born that way, physically elastic, unfixed in our bodies. We can become anything. In the beginning, we were the ones who could adapt to the rigors of time travel, become Time Lords. It's like some amphibians on your world being able to grow a new limb or change genders as needed. The background radiation didn't affect us.”

“Like it changed my cellular structure?”

“No, that wasn't the radiation. That was the TARDIS. Things are much safer now than they were in the beginning.”

“So, some of your people can change and some can't?”

“Yes. The poem is about that.”

“Can you translate it?”

He shook his head. “My language is too complex. Especially the poetic forms.” Crossing a foot over his knee, he began toying with the laces on his trainer. “But the gist of it, the central theme, is about changing. It was written in response to a lover's fears, the same fears you have.” He quickly unlaced the shoe and tossed it aside. “The part I was quoting says there are no names for things, no form, no pattern or map to guide the hearts. We are all without stars until we know what we love,” he kept his chin down, but smiled as he quietly added, “or whom.”

Rose winced. All of her lonely nights came flooding back to haunt her, nights without stars, without him. A pang of longing twisted in her chest. She knew what she loved. She loved being with him, only that. She'd planned to spend her whole life with him, but she'd never expected to get anything in return, not a kiss, certainly not children. All those nights, she'd prayed for one more chance to see him. Just to see him. Now, here he was, eager to share everything with her, and she was treating him like a stranger. She touched his wrist, met and held his liquid, dark gaze as he turned to face her.

He waited for her nod of permission, and then reverently placed a palm against her cheek. Her lips parted slightly around a contented sigh as he skimmed the curve of her jaw. His other hand rose, combing into her hair. Thumbs framing her face, he tilted her head to the side and gently kissed her. His lips were feather soft and sweet. Again and again, he put his mouth to hers, caressing her, savoring her. He kissed her eyelids and the tip of her nose and the furrow between her brows. He kissed her neck and shoulders, but he kept returning to her lips.

When he transferred his hummingbird sips to the slight valley of her cleavage, she swallowed and said, “Yes. Alright. You win.”

He smiled against her skin. Easing her blouse off her shoulder, he exposed, and then lightly cupped one breast. As he began nibbling around her nipple, Rose wondered what had become of his earlier shyness.

“But...see here, Doctor, you can't just...suck on...Oh! Stop!” He immediately obeyed, raising his line of sight to meet her eye. She blew out a breath and said, “We're not making babies. Not until I get used to the idea.”

“Whatever you say, Rose,” he said meekly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I'm in charge, yeah?”

“You are definitely in charge.”

She snorted. She supposed she was as “in charge” as any one could be in the middle of a loving seduction. Squirming into her, he wrapped his arms around her waist. Then, he stretched out along the bed, pulling her down on top of him. Her hair splashed over their faces. She shook it aside and glared at him with mock fierceness.

“We're just getting started here.”

“Yes, Rose.”

“And you have to do what I say? If I tell you to stop...?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he agreed, grinning up at her.

Staring into his guileless eyes, Rose couldn't help but return his smile. “You have no shame.”

“None,” he admitted, beaming wider still. He held her gaze as he toyed with her hair, separating one shiny ribbon from the rest and curling it around his fingers. She watched his expression darken, the bright sun of his grin setting behind his own storm clouds of doubt. “Should I?” he asked, searching her face. “Should we be ashamed?”

Rose's throat clenched. Her first instinct was to deny it. But all of her worries were linked to shame. Maybe this was the only question they needed to answer. Would she be ashamed to walk down the street beside him if he looked too young for her? Too feminine? Too old? Just as well to ask if he should be ashamed of loving her? He'd changed so much since the days when he'd thoughtlessly called her a 'stupid ape.' But there was no denying he was from a highly advanced species. Yet, he wasn't afraid to link his future to a simple shop girl, a primative from a backward planet. Would she be ashamed to be the mother of his children if they were just like him?

She thought of him fearlessly bouncing into the fray with some alien foe. Their children would be amazing, too, brave and bright. She thought of her mother's constant nagging. Jackie had certainly been afraid of what the Doctor offered. She'd been embarrassed by his odd ways. But Rose never had. The Doctor had thrust her into the spotlight before presidents and queens and madmen and she'd held her head high, proud of him, always.

His lips were thin, but from above his lower one looked full and delicious apple sweet. She tasted it with the tip of her tongue. Let that be her answer. She would never be ashamed of loving him. Come what may, he was what she needed. He shivered as she bit down lightly on the lip, her teeth stretching it a little. She shifted her weight onto her elbows, teasing him with the satiny glide of her breasts across his chest. He surrendered to her, head tipping to expose his throat. She kissed it. His eyes closed and his hand slipped from the small of her back to the swell of her bottom. When he squeezed, Rose pressed up on all fours, arching into his grip. Her tongue plundered his mouth, lapping in and out until he groaned. Oh, he was hers now. She slithered lower, her fingers attacking his trouser button and zip.

“Tell me,” she ordered, “when you first wanted this.”

His lashes parted slightly and he glanced down at her. Though his eyes were narrowed, his pupils were so wide he looked high on something. He gasped as his zipper grated down and his hands lost their grip on her. Rose insinuated her fingers into his open fly, folding fabric aside to caress the sensitive skin just below his hip bones.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

“In...at...in your home, when you grabbed me, forced me to come inside. Rose?” He shuddered. “I'm so cold.”

“When we met?” Surprised, she stopped her sensuous petting. “The day after you blew up my job?”

“Yes.”

“All that time?”

“Ye...yes...”

Straddling his thighs, she bent low to lick his taut stomach, leaving a wet line just above his slipping trousers. He liked that, she could tell by his mewling cry and the way he arched into her. Meeting his eye again, she asked, “When was it the worst for you?”

His mouth worked but he seemed incapable of answering her. She settled back, giving him time. He quivered all over and, at last, managed to say, “After I lost you.”

She didn't move, just held his gaze until she could speak without a catch in her voice. “For me, too,” she said. “I missed you so much. Every night...I...”

Crying out, he came up off the bed, quick as a striking snake. He seized her shoulders in both hands, yanking her forward into a bruising kiss. Everything Rose thought she knew about Time Lord sex changed again as he tumbled her to her back. There was nothing submissive about the demanding thrust of his tongue. Apparently, he responded to mental suggestion. All she'd done was bring her desires to mind. To think, this could have happened in the TARDIS, if only she'd known what to do to encourage him. She pushed another daring image at him and he slithered to the floor, growling low in his throat as he began to lick her in long, wet slurps.

His eyes glittered with a predatory light, but Rose met his gaze without any trace of fear. This was a fantasy come true and she was definitely in charge of it. He worked his way over every exposed inch of her, along her throat, around her nipples and across her abdomen. It tickled as much as it tantalized, making her squirm. With an impatient little hiss, he climbed onto the bed again. One of his hands cupped around her neck, gripping her at the nape. His other hand shoved roughly at her slacks. The soft cloth bunched at her knees. Before she had time to do more than yip in surprise, he had wriggled around and put his face between thighs.

“Is this what you thought about?” he asked, his cool exhalation teasing her most sensitive spots, “On those lonely nights?”

She lifted her pelvis to meet his lips, silently begging for what she'd never truly dreamed of having. The splayed fingers of his left hand slid up her belly to her breastbone. Pressing her down, he tasted her. No, he fed on her, indulging himself as much as he gratified her. He milked every ounce of pleasure from the pleasuring. No one had ever enjoyed her so wholeheartedly. The few men of her limited experience hadn't been anywhere near as orally fixated. The Doctor cherished every sip and swallow.

He made love to her with his mouth. His teeth tugged. His relentless tongue darted in and out of her increasingly slicker folds. It flickered and flitted over the throbbing pearl within them. She clenched around his fingers as he twisted two up into her core. He knew what he was doing. No one was this good by chance. He'd been reading. Or he'd been with a woman before. But he had never, she was certain, loved anyone with this much abandon.

“You're velvety smooth inside, my Rose,” he told her between sweeps of his tongue.

_Oh, my Doctor. Oh, God, yes...every night...I...I...just you...only you._

She couldn't even muster a coherent thought. She was going to break in his hands. He rubbed at her teasing sensitive points. His fingers sure now, moving briskly back and forth, quick and firm. It was all too much to bear, his mouth, his tongue, his touch. Those slim fingers inside her, pumping deep. She whimpered, shoulders jerking. Her hips lifted, rocking convulsively, as she twisted her head from side to side. She pounded the back of her skull into the bed. An exquisite tension built in her limbs and her gut. Her muscles drew as tight as the skin on a drum. She writhed. Whimpered. And came hard against the grinding palm of his hand. 

He followed her, psychically, all the way, completely aware of her cresting climax, he knew what was about to happen before she did. His mouth settled over hers, muffling her howl of ecstasy.

He reeked of her juices, his chin and cheeks wet with them, but she didn't care. She murmured in delight and languidly kissed him. “Mmmm,” she hummed, enjoying their intermingled flavors. He parted her lips with his, giving her his tongue.

They lingered over deep kisses, sucking and stroking one another. She helped him remove his last stitch of clothing. The brush of his thighs against hers, made Rose hungry again. He shivered, clutching her closer, nuzzling her breast. She shifted to look down along their intertwined bodies. Small wonder he was cold, he was completely exposed. Threading an arm between them, she found his sex and cradled it gently. It was small and wet and seemed fragile to her. She circled her thumb, caressing it. It had subtle curves and ridges. Her fingers were fascinated by the liquid slickness. Her hand got very slippery, very quickly.

There was no warning at all when the Doctor fainted. He simply lost his grip on her and apparently on everything else. Collapsing, he spasmed, his eyes rolling back in his head until they showed only slits of white. Shocked by the severity of his reaction, Rose shot to her knees and grabbed his shoulders, before remembering what he'd said about needing to be inside her immediately. His skin was getting cooler and he didn't appear to be breathing. She pushed aside a twinge of disappointment, focusing only on him. There would be no questioning this. He needed her. Hoping intimate union would rouse him, she straddled his hips, reaching between them to guide his member to where she pulsed hot. He was phallic enough to fit naturally into her.

The extremely lubricated, elegantly curved nature of his sex allowed it to slide in easily. But it seemed to cling within her, lodging, almost as if it were molding to her interior walls. A sharp gasp escaped her and her body whipped upright in response to a bulbous nudge of her g-spot. It happened again, like the shock of knocking her funny bone, only without the pain. Electric sparks pinged under her nipples. She arched her back to see the place where they were joined. He was definitely swelling inside her, and vibrating.

The Doctor's slender shaft wasn't nearly so accommodating now. It seemed to be made up of all sorts of knobs, each of them knuckling into one of her nerve endings. The probing made her want to ride him until she was slick with sweat. It made her breasts throb. She didn't want to start without him, but she couldn't help swiveling her hips, squirming to get more of him, take him deeper. She'd just found a lovely position when she felt a very odd pulse. Almost like a musical note. It reminded her of _Close Encounters_ , when the space ship started signaling. This means something, she thought, and almost laughed out loud. _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_. Alien sex with a third gender. And she'd been worried about how it would all look to other people.

Just like in the movie, the blaring vibrations kept coming. They couldn't have been very loud but they seemed to have window shattering intensity. She tried to adjust to the full body sensation as it lanced through her veins. Her mind wanted to give up on processing all of this weird stimulation. Her body wanted release. Thankfully, the Doctor came around. His hands locked about her waist, keeping her still, and at just the right angle for a truly exquisite series of pulses. She lifted her head. His eyes were open, clear and staring toward the ceiling. The peaceful expression on his face stole every objection from her mind. It looked as if he were gazing upon paradise.

“That feels...” she began. “It's...”

“Perfect,” he breathed. His line of sight dipped down to briefly intersect hers as he asked, “Do you hear it?”

Hear it? It was like breath to her. There was only sound and release. Sound and release. The vibrating had worked its way from her blood to her bones. Her marrow was singing. Notes. Sound. Music. A rhythmic melody throbbed through her core. It quaked in her gut, like a car was passing by with the bass turned way too loud. There were high notes, too, violins in her heartstrings. He pulled her down to his mouth and kissed her, evoking her full range. She had range, like a cello. This was the most amazing thing she'd ever felt.

She came again, gasping, “Yes, yes, I can. I hear it.”

“Push it into me,” he pleaded. “Into...into my mind.”

Musical shagging. She laughed breathlessly at the idea, joyfully pulsating all over. Her Doctor was a virtuoso. No wonder he compared sex to dancing. He moved in time with her, writhing and bridging up to deepen the tones. His instrument played hers. She clawed into his shoulders, holding on as he bucked beneath her. This was sex, wholly recognizable, if completely alien. He was definitely fucking her. But he needed her to push the music into him, maybe he couldn't find release without her help. Maybe they needed to be united by the music.

Head hanging low, each breath rasping in her throat, Rose envisioned herself as a cathedral, filled with glorious sound. Push through the doors, she thought, let the singing envelope him. The music was climbing toward crescendo again. It reminded her of the time they'd gone to Vienna for the premiere of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. The maestro himself had conducted, poorly at first, and then with mounting majesty. The theater had filled with a cyclone of swirling notes as the chorus and orchestra competed for dominance. The music built to a thundering, intertwining climax near the end of _Ode to Joy_. The force of sound had almost lifted her from her seat. As her own climax surged to an apex, she focused her mind and leaned on the Doctor's mental doors, pushing through to share her release with him.

He opened effortlessly to her thrust and she fell forward into a pool of brilliant light. He was there with her, beyond all physical boundaries. Their music swelled around them. It was more stirring, more evocative than Beethoven. But even more amazing, it was familiar. Rose remembered it. She'd been inside him once before, just like this, but with the golden glow of the Vortex penetrating her. It had linked them, somehow, and there were these same angelic voices.

_There was singing._

_That's right. I sang a song and the Daleks ran away._

She could hear everything in the ethereal melody. All that is. All that was. All that ever would be. She could hear what he heard. The music of the spheres. Their love song turned the clockwork of creation. It kept the universe harmonious.

The final notes echoed as the music slowly subsided. It faded with the light. Rose came back to her body completely sated. Gravity took hold, unexpectedly, and her trembling arms failed her. She collapsed forward onto the Doctor's damp chest. The strands of his hair were wet next to her nose. He was dripping sweat. He never perspired. Never breathed heavily, but she heard him gasping in air. They were both gasping and alive and she could feel the sticky warmth of his spent seed inside her. A tremor shook his frame.

Worry for him moved her when nothing else on Earth could have. She didn't have the strength to lift her head, but she turned it and stammered, “D-do-doctor?” He quivered again. It took her a moment to realize he was chuckling to himself.

Panting as he laughed, he struggled to speak. “Tha-that was...was it, yeah?” he managed to ask her. “Heaven?”

“Yes,” she confirmed, patting his shoulder reassuringly as she relaxed again. “That was heaven.”

“I never believe it was--" He took a slow breath. "Really real,” he finished, in a sleepy whisper.

She stifled a yawn. “We'll go back in a day or two,” she promised him, “and you can get a better look around.”

Lethargy stole over them as Rose let her consciousness slip under the cozy blanket of perfect contentment. She felt safe in his arms; she loved what she loved without worry or regret. They'd suffered, but were unrepentant. The world would move on. Time was fleeting. They had only a few short years, the span of her lifetime, to explore heaven. She didn't want to waste one moment, not when they'd finally found their way home.

 

THE END


End file.
